


Death's Messengers

by DisasterLesbean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Bellamione Cult Discord Game, Discord: Bellamione Cult, F/F, death!bellatrix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 08:27:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18069992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterLesbean/pseuds/DisasterLesbean
Summary: It’s awing to have Death’s life pulsing around her hands.





	Death's Messengers

It’s like any other day before it isn’t. She singing and walking down the street having just left the market when she sees something unusual. There’s a person sitting against a stone off the side of the road. They’re wrapped in dark cloth. The sun is at its highest and she fears the figure has collapsed from the heat. It’s not wise to wear such dark heavy garments this time of year. She approaches the figure and is certain the person is wounded. She kneels down after calling out to the person, offering her water to the stranger. The stranger’s hand lifts taking the water, they look up at her. 

“Do you know who you help?” Her voice is light but marred by her exhaustion. Hermione looks to the red soaking the grass beneath the woman and searches through her basket for the cloth she had purchased. 

“Must I?” She searches for the wound, the red hard to spot against the dark material. The woman grabs Hermione’s wrist, directing her hand towards her ribs. Hermione feels her grip long after she takes it away. She’d expected the collapsed woman, who from what Hermione could see was underfed as well, to have a weak grip. She had anything but. Her grip was strong and sure. Hermione pressed the cloth against the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“I doubt you’d help if you know who I am.” She sounds sure, as if she knows Hermione’s measure. Her eyes are old, they crease with the practice of one who knows too much. Hermione wonders at what this woman has seen. 

“Who are you then?”

“Death.” She shouldn’t believe it. It’s a bold claim to make. She does believe the woman. She believes because everyone knows magic is real. Beasts lurk in the woods and fairies dance along their homes. It isn’t surprising to meet someone inhumane. She supposes it makes sense, the dark clothing and agelessness. It’s awing to have Death’s life pulsing around her hands.

“Will you take me?” Isn’t that what matters, what Death insinuates? 

“No, you’ve done me a kindness.” She stands, strength returning. Her eyes still watch Hermione, tracing over her, memorizing her features. It should be chilling, being analyzed by Death, but Hermione can’t find the strength to take her hand back. Her hand which still presses against Death’s stomach despite her now standing, closer to Hermione than necessary. “I cannot spare you but I will send messengers before I come for you.” It’s a promise, an oath. Hermione nods finally taking her hand back. It’s bloodied by Death and colder for leaving her. 

“Until then.” 

“Until then.” For the first time, Death’s expression changes. A wavering of her lips, a half formed smile. An indulgent expression, one she doubts Death truly partakes in. Hermione finds herself finishing the expression for her, a smile wide and broad. She turns back to the road and continues home, singing once again.

She knows she’s safe for years. She knows because Death had told her she would send messengers. She doesn’t receive messengers so she lives her life to its highest. She journeys with Harry and Ron seeking to discover the wonders of this world. They find them. They find magic and creatures like she could never dream of. Beauty in a million different cities, both human and not. She never tells Harry and Ron of her meeting with Death. She knows they would believe her but she can’t bring herself to utter the words. The is meeting too sacred, a memory for two and only two. 

She stops travelling when she gets sick. She’s in an elven village when the sickness strikes. Harry and Ron want to stay with her but she ensures them she’s okay. Hermione’s never been wrong about this so they leave. She gets worse.

She loses sleep, her body overcome with coughs and fevers. Her head muffled and pained more often than not. The elves are worried for her. They fear she will not live but she knows. The messengers haven’t come so she smiles at the elves and tells them she’ll be fine. She is, she gets better. She leaves her hut, walks to her favorite tree and sit beneath it with a book. She’s consumed in her novel, stories of a dwarven mine not far from here, when she feels a body settle next to her. Legs pressed together, black cloth draped over part of her body. She turns and looks into the face of Death.

“No. You said you’d send messengers.” Death had seemed so sure, so right in her word Hermione never dared question.

“I did. I sent sickness, fevers, headaches, I even made sure to send dreams.” Her words are tinged with anger, sore pride over her word being question. 

“I see.” What is she to reply to Death? She had been arrogant and ignored Death’s messengers. That wasn’t Death’s fault but her own. “You’ve come to take me then?”

“Yes.” It’s a simple answer, she stands and offers Hermione her hand. She takes it.

“What happens now?”

“You go to the next place.”

“Will you be there?” This surprises Death. She wonders if she’s the only person who’s managed to surprise Death. First by the stone and now here with the question humming in the air. 

“Why should that matter?”

“I think I’d rather like what comes next if you are there.” Despite the life she’s lived and wonders she’s seen, Death is always on her mind. She’s feared Death’s visit, who wouldn’t? No human would walk blindly to their own death. Yet, she’s also been waiting for this. Waiting to feel Death’s deceptively soft skin brush against her, her dark eyes that are filled with the world to only look at Hermione. She’s been waiting and fearing Death and now that she’s here, she finds herself only longing for her presence. 

“You’re an odd creature.” It should be rude but coming from Death it seems anything but. Death is wearing that same half-smile from all those years ago and Hermione yearns to trace it. “Who would wish for the company of Death? Do you not fear me?”

“I’m already dead, what’s there to fear?”

“Then I am yours.”


End file.
